Friday 12 July

Nearly every small town nestling in the valleys or perched on the hilltops in this mountainous region bang in the middle of France - the Regional des Volcans d'Auvergne - lure you with their medieval auras. You could write so much, take so many photos and never be satiated. If you had the time!

We called in at Blesle and wandered round the ancient streets. Perhaps because there are so many attractive towns, they do not tend to become very commercialised or touristy. Blesle was still old France, with the faded cafe names on crumbling rendering, the old tables still serving customers, the old half-timbered houses still standing without being re-pointed, the church bell chiming on.

As we drove on north, every rock promontory of any decent size had a castle, or the ruins of a castle on it. The towns had characters of their own - St Nectaire with tall elegant hotels was like Harrogate, only much more interesting, built around a series of rocky hills and cliff faces, and the next town, Murol, could have come out of the Lake District, its houses built with Cumberland stone and their roofs had slates instead of the ubiquitous red pantiles.

Eventually, the jagged looming mountains gave way to smooth undulating hills, then the flat lands of corn fields stretching for miles. We covered another 180 odd miles on the northward trek, ending up at the town of Issoudun - almost the very centre of France, north to south, east to west.

Saturday 13 July

Corn for as far as he eye could see

The insect-spattered windscreen spoke of many quick miles in warm sun. We ended up level with Paris after a day of travelling through the corn. Indeed, it seemed sometimes as though the road had been laid on top of the fields, the yellow rye and wheat lapping the tarmac.

We landed up at a town called Anet, where in 1547 Diane de Pioters, the French king's mistress, had a splendid chateau built. And when she died, a chapel was built in which her tomb lies.

The municipal campsite was huge, spreading over two sides of the road. And it was crammed full, nearly all by families who seemed to have made their caravans and awnings their country cottages. They had created their own little gardens around their pitches, put up their TV satellite dishes, brought the family pet, even a guinea pig and its cage, and everything but their kitchen sinks with them and everyone seemed to know everyone. At the same time they were friendly and welcoming of strangers.

It was a very warm evening - 30C in the camper.

Sunday 14 July

It's Bastille Day - the time when the French celebrate with as much, if not more, enthusiasm as we celebrate Guy Fawkes, the 1789 storming of the infamous prison in Paris and the start of the French revolution.

In fact, as is their tradition, the festivities started last night with fireworks going off to the north, south, east and west of the campsite. Only the French seem to go in for bangs rather than displays. No rockets illuminated the sky. We saw very little, but heard a lot. Before that, there was a kids' party not far from our camper, and later a full-scale floodlit party at another caravan, with music and dancing. It was some one's birthday too and everyone sang Happy Birthday in English! Whether that's a French tradition, we do not know.

In Abbeville, there were lots of people congregating in the town centre parkland, but traffic made it impossible for us to park to see what was going on. We passed marquees and gatherings in several places but not much seemed to be happening. The weather was not much to celebrate - cloudy and at times misty and rainy.

We went west to explore the coast and ended up stuck in slow moving queues of cars in coastal towns that could have been Blackpool or Skegness. We ended up on another packed municipal site at Hardelot Plage, north of Le Touquet, where we were squeezed on to a sandy corner pitch.

Monday 15 July

We went to the seaside. After the moules n'chips atmosphere of the crowded resorts, Le Touquet was quiet and smart and once passed Boulogne, the D940 ran close to the coast, passed coves and beaches where there was no exploitation and space to park. So we did, and lay in the sun on the beach and went waist high into the nippy ocean.

We camped just below Cap Blanc Nez on a site where the owner squeezed in so many people, it was hardly possible to see any of the green grass. There obviously are not the same rules as in England about minimum space for pitches. Still, with all the coastal sites being very full, we were lucky to have found a resting place.

Tuesday 16 July

We're back on English soil and in the middle of a smuggling adventure! We had earmarked our final day in France for cheap booze shopping. We went to City Europe, a shopping complex that has just opened at the entrance of the Channel Tunnel, unashamedly cashing in on the Channel hoppers, and a branch of Tesco's for the wine. Some of it was about half the price of what we'd pay at home, but beer only a few pence per can cheaper.

An English couple we had met a few days earlier showed us a magazine article on shopping for alcohol at Calais and we made some brief notes from it.

If we had been willing to explore further, we may have found better bargains.

Some Brits obviously did, but more of that later. Exhausted by the shops tour, we left and followed a campsite sign nearby. After a few junctions with no more signs, we gave up the hunt and headed back into Calais proper and decided to see if we could get a ferry there and then.

We did and just before the M20 near Folkestone, found another campsite sign, which pretty quickly took us to a pleasant, but very windy, green field site overlooking the sea in the distance.

It was here, Insp Madame Patricia decided, things seemed fishy. She takes up the story.

Two cars with back axles almost touching the ground came in together but went to caravans at opposite ends of the site (Caravans A and B). The cars were heavily laden with drink. There was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, helping each other unload into a trailer, hidden behind caravan A. It was all very frantic work, as they then covered up what drink was left in the cars.

Then an icecream van came on the site. It didn't play any jingles and no one queued at the window. The male driver parked near another caravan, tidied up inside his van for a bit, then went. Obviously an undercover policeman, said Insp Patricia. They often use icecream or BT vans, she added.

A close eye was also kept on other arrivals - a black Mercedes out of which came 16 boxes of 24, with more left in side, and another car that whizzed in, then out, then back in again. This turned out to be a family, though, probably arguing about the suitability of the site.

Mother and father put up a tent, daughter refused to leave the car. They then left for a trip to MacDonalds. Another tent, put up earlier in the day, but deserted all evening looked as though it was about to blow away. Where were the occupants, who had left their towels out to dry?

A couple of cyclists came and put up a tent, and sat around in its entrance, their legs bare to the cold wind. They were still there as darkness fell. It was at this point that one of the cars still laden with beer left the site driven by the man from caravan A, minus his trailer, with a woman from caravan B - probably, deduced lnsp Patricia, to offload the illicit cargo that was in the car.

Wednesday 17 July

The bootleggers carefully covered their boxes of beer with rugs and drove off in their weighed-down cars and trailer, the cyclists rode off with their legs still bare to the wind and we set off for our last leg home.

It was a straightforward drive up the busy A1, stopping for lunch at the Ram Jam Inn, named after a brew made in the 17th century, the recipe now lost. We highly recommend the hostelry as a very pleasant change to motorway stops, or Little Chefs.

GRAVE GAS GOINGS ON

For few days or so near the end of the holiday, we kept thinking as we drove along we could smell gas. I assumed it was engine fumes as, when we were parked, there was no smell. And I checked that the gas bottle was turned off

One morning our gas bottle ran out, so I switched over to the full bottle. The fridge started making a roaring noise. When we tried lighting the cooker, it too roared loudly - gas was coming out so fast, it would not ignite.

I switched off the gas bottle. It had no effect. Gas was still coming through the pipes. The warning label round the neck of the bottle said if gas continued to be released when switched off, contact the nearest Calor dealer. They do not have Calor Gas in France. So rather worried, we just relied on mains electricity for our needs for the last few days.

The cause: A faulty gas bottle. Back home, a dealers said they had never had one behave like that before - it seemed to been over-filled. It was replaced free of charge, of course

HOUSE OVER THE SEINE

We found this unusual home at a place called Vernon. It was at one time in history a toll house for a large bridge, which has now crumbled into the river Seine below. But the 12 pillars that once supported the arches still stand in the wide expanse of water.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Next: How I only just missed the apocalypse - France 2002

These articles were originally posted to the Motorhome List. They appear here, with the addition of the photos, with the kind permission of the author, Tim Sinclair.